His Squad Now
by Ash10
Summary: Final Chapter now up! Pease R&R! Will Sergeant Saunders be reunited with his squad and Colonel Ironhorse? And what of the colonel? Will he return to his own time or remain trapped in WWII France? Combat! War of the Worlds the TV show, first season crossov
1. Chapter 1

A bit of background on the syndicated television series of the late 1980s, "War of the Worlds," season one.

The alien attack of 1953 was halted when the extraterrestrials were presumably killed off by Earth's common bacteria. The United States Government sealed the alien remains in metal drums for later study and promptly forgot all about them. Unfortunately, the aliens were only in a sort of suspended animation and accidental exposure to radiation revived them. By using human bodies as hosts, the aliens from Mortax circumvented the bacterial threat. The "War of the Worlds" was renewed in full force.

1988 saw the establishment of The Blackwood Project to combat the alien menace while preventing wholesale panic among the masses. It is headed by astrophysicist Harrison Blackwood, foster son of Doctor Clayton Forrester who studied the aliens during the initial 1953 attack. Doctor Suzanne McCullough, microbiologist and mother to young Debi; wheelchair-bound computer whiz and communications specialist, Norton Drake; and Lieutenant Colonel Paul Ironhorse, half Cherokee West Point Graduate, military liaison and head of the elite special ops unit, Omega Squad, round out the members of The Blackwood Project.

It's my hope you'll enjoy this "Combat" - "War of the Worlds" crossover. Feedback is always welcome and thanks!

XXXX

His Squad Now

"Where in hell am I?" Ironhorse mumbled over the soft thudding of his own heart and the god-awful booming of the big guns nearby – too nearby. The ground beneath him heaved and shook, and the air was filled with the acrid burn of gunpowder.

His head throbbed and his vision was blurred, allowing only a surreal interpretation of his surroundings. At least the lieutenant colonel prayed it wasn't reality to which he was being subjected.

Figures moved through the trees, barely visible as dusk fell – soldiers, not dressed in camouflage, but browns and tans, wearing old style pot helmets. Ironhorse flattened himself to the ground and watched as they moved. The small squad worked well as a unit; a scout, Garrand cradled left-handedly; a non-com armed with a Thompson submachine gun, several privates, one carrying a lethal-looking Browning Automatic Rifle, and a medic sandwiched protectively within the squad, the soldiers' bodies flesh, blood and bone shields to their unarmed comrade.

Ironhorse closed his eyes, opened hem again, but no – the eerie scene remained unchanged. The last thing he remembered clearly was a white flash explosion, Blackwood at his side thrown forward, a scream - his or Harrison's? France – an alien sighting, a running battle in the woods outside Saint Lo that turned out to be a huge massing of a Mortaxen army – hidden war machines…a nightmare. This, however, proved a nightmare of a different sort.

Ironhorse dogged the unfamiliar soldiers, his special forces training keeping his footsteps silent so that he was shocked by the voice at his back – low, menacing, French-accented.

"Lay down your weapon and put up your hands."

Ironhorse did as the voice commanded, crouching to lay the M16 down an arm's length away, raising his hands slowly before attempting to turn and confront his adversary. A sharp prod from the barrel of the other man's rifle stopped him.

"Sarge…here." From among the trees the others emerged; baggy trousers stuffed into leather boots buckled at the ankle, light field jackets belted with canvas webbing, dirty faces smudged with exhaustion, aged beyond years.

A sergeant moved into the colonel's line of vision – stepped near enough for Ironhorse to see his face. The lines around the eyes were deep, the eyes themselves a startling blue, and the colonel had the most uncomfortable feeling this man could see into his thoughts. The non-com's gaze roamed the colonel's face, stopping at the bloody gash above Ironhorse's right eye and the associated darkly spreading bruise, the damage threatening to swell the eye closed.

"Doc, take a look." The sergeant motioned for the medic.

"Can he sit down, Sarge?"

The sergeant nodded. "Pat him down, Caje."

'Caje' handed his rifle to someone behind him and came around to unbuckle Ironhorse's web belt and the sheath that held his knife strapped to one leg. His actions were quick and efficient. "Drop your hands."

The medic led the colonel to a flat rock and pressed his shoulders down. Uncharacteristically docile, Ironhorse sat. His head ached and throbbed, and for the moment he was more than content to do what he was told. The medic cleaned the wound and applied a bandage. His touch was gentle and his voice soothing – the accent somewhat familiar – Oklahoman perhaps.

Ironhorse slumped forward, caught against Doc's chest. The medic laid the oddly clad soldier on the ground and his gaze sought out the sergeant. "What's a lieutenant colonel doin' out here, Sarge, dressed like this? I never saw a uniform like it."

The sergeant shrugged. "I don't know. Since the radio's had it we can't contact the lieutenant to find out if headquarters knows. So we wait till this colonel wakes up and ask him."

"Yeah, well, I'll just be he's a spy, Sarge!" Kirby, the B.A.R. man, edged up, looking down at Ironhorse, curious, but not afraid. He clutched his heavy weapon close to his body with one arm, the sling taking most of the rifle's weight. Reaching into a pocket for a cigarette Kirby accepted a light from Caje's Zippo. He inhaled deeply. "He gonna live, Doc?"

"He'll be okay, Kirby. He took a bad hit, but I think he's just mostly exhausted."

Sergeant Chip Saunders lit his own cigarette, his expression, as usual, guarded. He shifted the Thompson around to hang from its sling at his back and knelt beside the medic.

"He's Indian, Sarge, Cherokee." Doc said. "No spy, no German, that's for sure. My family farm sits smack at the edge of the reservation. I grew up around Indians."

Saunders took off his helmet and ran a hand back through his pale, perpetually unkempt hair. The colonel definitely looked Indian – tall, slender, high cheekbones, black hair and eyes. Replacing his helmet and tossing aside the barely smoked Marlboro, Saunders searched the colonel for anything, any clue to his identity or mission. He found a map of the area, but nothing else, and the map was much different than Saunders' own with details and grids drawn to exact specifications.

The sergeant carefully refolded the map and tucked it back into the colonel's pocket. "Whoever he is – whatever he's here for doesn't matter. We all gotta get outta here fast. The Germans are coming this way and they won't wait."

Ironhorse felt a metallic container held to his mouth and eagerly took the water. Far from fresh it tasted exactly like the canteen, but it revived him. Struggling against the dizziness he sat up, the medic's arm supporting his back.

The non-com crouched at eye level. "Colonel, my name is Saunders, K Company, Three Hundred Sixty First. The Krauts got us surrounded. We gotta move out."

"Ironhorse, Paul." The colonel touched the bandage at his forehead and winced. Saunders' words filtered slowly down to him. He felt the blood drain from his face. "Krauts? Germans?"

Ironhorse grabbed a handful of Saunders' jacket. Caje moved to intervene at the threat, but the sergeant motioned him back. "What day is it, Sergeant? What date?" Then more softly, "What year?"

"Thursday, November 5th, 1944, sir," Saunders replied.

"1944?" Ironhorse released Saunders' jacket and sagged back. "1944?" He repeated.

"It's okay, sir. Head injuries sometimes cause confusion. Don't worry." Doc's hand against the officer's shoulder did little to stabilize the shakes that started in the colonel's legs and enveloped the slim body. Somehow and in some way, Paul Ironhorse had been transported back exactly 44 years to yet another war. In this battle he was alone. He would not remain so long.

The next 48 hours were a continuation of the nightmare for the small squad led by Chip Saunders. They covered miles, fought exhaustion and shared meager rations with their mysterious colonel. They dodged German patrols and huddled together against the cold damp ground, hidden temporarily from the massing enemy by the cloak of darkness.

Their luck, what there was of it, ran out the next morning. In a driving rain, the squad ran head-on into a German machine gun emplacement.

Belly down in the cold mud Saunders covered the men as they scattered, slipping in the muck, scrambling frantically to find shelter, anything to protect themselves from an almost certain death at the hands of the Kraut .50.

Suddenly, the sound of Saunders' Thompson went silent. While scrambling for position the sergeant took a bullet which slammed him back to the ground.

Gasping for breath, the rain beating onto his upturned face, Saunders lacked the breath to answer the squad's repeated calls.

Lying side by side behind the meager shelter of a fallen tree limb, Ironhorse and Caje exchanged worried looks. "Sarge, answer me, dammit!" The scout called anxiously. Aside from the relentless machine gun fire and the Americans' returning barrage, there was nothing.

Doc moved up under the cover of Kirby's B.A.R. to join the two. "I'm going up to him!" He shouted.

"You're not going – not alone." Ironhorse slapped one hand against the stock of the M203 grenade launcher attached to the underside of his rifle. "I'll move out – lay down suppressing fire. If I can get close enough to the Germans I'll lob in a grenade. Stay close and stay low, Doc."

The colonel edged up, slithering belly down, inches at a time under cover fire from Kirby and the rest of the squad's M1s and Garrands. It took him the better part of ten minutes to creep around the German's left flank and within range of his grenade launcher. Waiting for a lull in the enemy machine gun fire seemed to take forever. Ironhorse knew Saunders had to be badly hit or else he would have found a way to answer his squad's repeated calls. Each minute meant the sergeant's life slipped further from the point where it could be saved. The worse case scenario, that Saunders was already dead, never entered his mind.

Doc flopped down at the officer's elbow, out of breath, but alert. "Get ready, Doc." The medic nodded.

A second of quiet while the Germans reloaded the .50; Ironhorse took the second, raised his body up and released several bursts from the M203. All three projectiles hit their mark. Ironhorse leaped to his feet, spraying the silent nest with gunfire as he ran towards it and Saunders, further off to the left. The colonel reached the sergeant first.

Amazingly, Saunders was conscious. "It's not that bad, Colonel…" he wheezed.

Ironhorse strained to catch the whispered words.

"I just can't seem… to catch my breath."

Doc was there and Ironhorse moved out of the way. He crouched near Saunders' head, content to follow the medic's harried orders and it was, he realized, the second time in only a few days he felt okay allowing someone else to handle the responsibility. Though a relief, it troubled him greatly.

The medic tore open the field jacket, popping the buttons off the shirt beneath in his haste to access the wound. It was a large, perfectly round hole and the blood which oozed from it was a bright, foamy red. Accepting an open packet of sulfa from Ironhorse, Doc dumped it onto the wound and pressed the proffered bandage down hard, sealing the hole.

Saunders grabbed for Doc's wrist, holding on with a strength which defied the blood loss he suffered. His face creased in pain and he tried to twist his body from it. Pressure against his shoulders kept him down and still. The panic eased when Saunders realized he could finally catch a full breath. He relaxed, slightly, but continued to hold firmly to Doc.

"Soon as I get this bandage taped down tight I'll get you some morphine, Sarge."

Ironhorse had seen sucking chest wounds in Vietnam; they were dangerous, frightening and even with the relatively advanced medical knowledge of the early 1970s, the prognosis remained iffy. But this medic, he was good all right – fast, skilled and above all, he truly cared. Ironhorse prayed the caring just might make the difference.

The rain stopped and a frigid, biting wind came up out of the northwest. Within an hour the wet mud and the water left standing idly in shell holes and runoff ditches would freeze. Already the colonel could see his breath, and Saunders had begun to shiver. Ironhorse stripped off his field jacket, meaning to cover the sergeant with it, but Doc intervened. "You'll need it, sir. I've got a blanket in my pack." The medic pulled the thin wool free and draped it over Saunders, tucking it carefully around his body.

Caje cleared his throat and Ironhorse glanced up. The rest of the squad trotted over from various positions to cluster near, their attention focusing on the wounded sergeant. "Sir, it's all clear." Caje said.

The colonel nodded getting to his feet. "We've got to get Saunders to shelter. If I remember correctly, there are a series of caverns etched into the hillside, less than a mile from our position, due east. We'll hole up there until the sergeant can travel."

Ironhorse looked over each member of the squad – his squad now – his men.

Their faces were smeared with exhaustion, streaked with dirt and in more than one case, blood, and their cheeks were beard-stubbled. They returned his steady appraisal. Ironhorse saw their open trust. When had it all changed? When had Kirby stopped casting sidelong, nervous glances his way? And Littlejohn, when had he stopped pointedly avoiding the colonel? And Caje – he was the rare bird. Quietly thoughtful, after the first 24 hours when he'd seen how Saunders treated the mysterious officer, with respect due to rank, then with the genuine respect earned by an officer who knows his job and does it well, Caje reacted in kind. He accepted Ironhorse as completely and without question as did his sergeant. And young Billy….

"There's no time to rig a stretcher. We made enough noise to bring every German within miles down on us. Littlejohn…?"

The big private nodded. "Yes, sir?"

"Think you can carry the sergeant to those caves?" Ironhorse motioned with one hand toward the distant shelter.

"Yes, sir. I can carry him." Littlejohn replied.

At the colonel's touch against Saunders' arm the non-com struggled to look up at the officer. "Just take it easy, Sergeant. We're moving out now. Try to relax."

Ironhorse motioned Littlejohn over. He accepted the soldier's Garrand and passed it and Saunders' Thompson over to Caje. The scout slung that rifle along with his own over his back and out of the way, cradling the Tommy gun in both hands.

"Careful huh, Littlejohn?" Doc cautioned quietly.

The big man slid his hands beneath the sergeant and tenderly gathered him up into his arms. The medic reached up to tuck the blanket around Saunders' chest.

Unseen by Doc, Saunders' ID bracelet slipped from the sergeant's wrist and fell to the ground, but Ironhorse noticed. He leaned over, scooped up the silver links and stuffed the bracelet into his chest pocket. He'd return it to its owner later. "Caje, take point," he ordered.

The mile should have taken less than an hour with the relatively level terrain, but the weather closed in tight, wind howling, kicking up a localized snow squall. Visibility was nearly nonexistent and the soldiers were not dressed for the rapid climate shift.

Caje located the cave by sheer accident and luck. With the rest of the squad hunkered down in the brush outside, the scout and the colonel did a quick recon. The cave itself was small yet offered everything the bone-weary soldiers needed – a safe place out of the weather and invisibility from prying eyes. One thing it did not offer was an alternate escape route. If the soldiers were discovered, one well-thrown grenade would wipe them out.

Caje voiced his opinion. "There's no choice, sir. It's this or freeze."

Ironhorse agreed. "If we had this much trouble finding the cave in this storm, we can hope the Germans sure as hell won't find it. We stay. Get the others."

Caje nodded and disappeared out into the storm.

Littlejohn entered first, moving to the far side of the rock room to a protected spot not readily visible from the doorway. He laid Saunders down, hunkering low beside him, lifting the snow-covered blanket to shake it off; even wet wool was warm and the sergeant needed all the warmth he could get.

Doc reached into his pack and retrieved half a khaki towel. He always seemed to have bits and scraps in that pack, including an extra box of rations, a pack of gum or a spare cigarette. Doc was a fine medic and also a very resourceful packrat. With the dry square he carefully blotted Saunders' face dry, dragging the cloth back through the soaked hair. Saunders murmured, but remained still until the medic touched the bandage across his chest. His eyes flew open and he protested, pushing at Doc's hands. A few soft, reassuring words and the sergeant settled back, whispering, "it's just sore, Doc…and it's so damned cold…can't remember ever bein' this cold."

Doc shot a glance over his shoulder to where Ironhorse and Caje stood talking in low tones.

"Colonel, suppose we could have a small fire? Sarge is freezin'…I'm sure we could all use a little heat. Some light to work by wouldn't hurt either."

Ironhorse pulled an angle-headed flashlight from his belt and panned it around the cave, moving around the perimeter for a closer inspection. Tiny tunnels funneled off from the main room – too small for a man to crawl through, but big enough to carry off any smoke.

"Kirby, Billy, find some kindling." The pair acknowledged the order, but Kirby's gaze fastened to the odd flashlight in Ironhorse's hand. The colonel caught the look, turned the flash off and tucked it away.

"You see the weird stuff the colonel's carryin', Billy?" Kirby whispered while reaching inside his jacket to scratch at a persistent itch beneath his right arm. "They sure got some neat stuff for them G-2 guys."

"You really think he's from G-2, Kirby? Maybe he was sent to check up on us," Billy replied, slinging his M1 out of the way so he could gather twigs while the B.A.R. man kept watch.

"Yeah, G-2, but for somethin' big, Billy boy. They don't send officers, colonels yet, just to check up on us dogfaces. Now be quiet and get done. It's cold out here!" Kirby stood as still as possible in the driving snow, wanting desperately to stamp his cold feet or at least keep moving. "Low profile, Kirby," he reminded himself as Billy finished and the pair moved back into the protection of the cave.

Saunders stared languidly into the small fire. Despite its warmth and the wool blanket, he continued to shiver. Doc leaned over him, checking the bandaging. This time Saunders never flinched. The wound stopped bleeding and at first Doc thought it a good sign. Saunders was still having trouble breathing and when the medic raised the non-com's head to give him a sip of water, Saunders cried out in pain, "My shoulder!"

Ironhorse crouched near, his expression questioning. Doc shook his head. "Did you hit it when you fell, Sarge?" the medic asked, but Saunders whispered, "No…it hurt just now…when you moved me."

The medic eased the sergeant's head down. Saunders gritted his teeth at the exquisite pain the movement caused.

Ironhorse patted the wounded man's arm, but spoke to Doc. "Let's talk," he inclined his head to the side. The medic rose to follow.

"I've seen this before…internal bleeding causes pain in the shoulder – internal pressure. I think the sergeant is bleeding into his chest."

"Damn!" Doc swore uncharacteristically, vehemently. "Just what he needs! I wondered why the wound wasn't bleedin' much. We gotta get him outta here."

The medic was a picture of despair, skin gray from exhaustion, shoulders rounded. He rubbed a hand across the back of his neck, scrubbing at the tight muscles, kneading them, hoping to ease a bit of the headache that plagued him ever since Saunders was hit. His gaze met Ironhorse's while he waited patiently for the officer to speak.

"We can't make a move until this weather clears. By then, with luck, the Krauts will be somewhere else. As soon as I can, I'll send Caje out for a recon."

"The Sarge can't wait long, Colonel," Doc reminded the officer.

Ironhorse turned back to the wounded man. Saunders continued to stare into the flames, eyes half-closed, lost in his own world, one that, in a matter of hours, had become a nightmare from which he could not wake. "I know that," Ironhorse replied.

Feeling a sudden need to be alone, the colonel walked to the farthest side of the cave and slumped wearily down against the wall. His head still throbbed painfully, especially when he was tired and he was very tired.

Caje, guarding the cave entrance, cradled Saunders' Thompson almost casually across one arm, but the Cajun was far from casual; little escaped his attention. He shifted from one foot to the other and caught Ironhorse watching him. The scout nodded, looking from the colonel to where the others sat companionably around Saunders and the fire. He seemed ready to speak, then possibly thinking better of the idea turned back to face the outside.

Paul Ironhorse wondered for the thousandth time how he had come to be here. And he wondered if the Blackwood Project team members were safe. He remembered the battle with the aliens – Harrison at his side, game as always – Omega Squad, gunfire, grenades, the explosion – the white light, the pain; and now this – same place, different time. He groaned aloud at the pain in his head and the confusion in his heart, unaware he'd done so. A hand on his shoulder startled him. Doc crouched down holding out two small, white pills.

"They're just aspirin, Colonel. Can't hurt…might help." Using the tablets as an excuse Doc, with his presence, was offering to listen if the colonel needed a sounding post. He stayed while Ironhorse swallowed the pills with a long drink from his canteen, even allowing the medic to do a quick neuro check on him.

"Will I live?" Ironhorse chided as Doc finished looking over the healing gash above the officer's eye.

"With all my medical knowledge, sir, I'd say yup – probably for at least another 40 years." The young man smiled, but the smile faded when the colonel's expression darkened and he turned abruptly away. "It'll come back, sir…your memory, I mean. As soon as we get outta this mess…there are doctors…"

Ironhorse stopped him with an impatient wave of the hand, and just as quickly the impatience vanished. "You're right, Doc. I know."

Without hesitation Ironhorse changed the subject. "How's the sergeant?" Saunders was all but blocked from his sight by the soldiers sitting around him. Their voices as they spoke to each other were low. There was none of the usual bantering, just softly worded, whispered exchanges. Kirby lit a cigarette and held it to the sergeant's lips. Saunders took a couple puffs, but it was all he could do to breathe and he refused another drag.

"He's bad, sir. I hope the weather breaks soon. He needs a hospital."

"Colonel? Colonel Ironhorse…the Sarge wants to talk to you," Kirby called quietly.

"Coming, Private."

Doc offered a hand up which Ironhorse gladly accepted.

At the colonel's approach the squad members reluctantly, respectfully rose from Saunders' side.

Ironhorse settled himself next to Saunders, sitting cross-legged on the rock floor. The sergeant's eyes were closed, his labored breathing audible in the cloistered cave. The colonel took a moment to appraise the man's condition and found nothing much to offer in the way of hope. The sergeant was critically wounded, weak and growing weaker. His wheat-colored hair lay plastered to his scalp, not from melted snow, but perspiration; his skin shone with it.

Saunders opened his eyes, angling his head just enough to be able to meet the colonel's steady gaze. "Weather…how is it?" he whispered.

"Caje? Is it still snowing?" Ironhorse questioned.

"Yes, sir. Can't see more than a couple feet in any direction."

Saunders heard the reply. "Good." He nodded slightly, reaching out to grasp the colonel's sleeve. The officer glanced down at the hand. The fingers were thick and strong with blood, some wet, most of it dried, mixed in with the dirt between the fingers and around the knuckles. Ironhorse covered the cold hand with his.

"Good," Saunders repeated. "We can't see the Krauts. They can't see us." He grimaced, taking a moment to gather strength before continuing.

"You've gotta get my men outta here, Colonel. This place is a death trap. You only brought 'em in here because of me. Because of me you gotta get 'em out." The sergeant loosened his grip on Ironhorse's sleeve and his body seemed to shrink back against the cold stone. He gritted his teeth at a sudden wave of pain and his hand found the pile of bandaging on his chest, yet Saunders adamantly refused the colonel's offer to call Doc. He grew agitated, his words slurred but punched out in a staccato breathlessness as if he had little enough time to get it all said.

"They won't take it good…leavin' me behind…Kirby…Caje, but Colonel, they're good soldiers. They'll follow orders. They'll follow you."

Ironhorse suddenly felt very sorry he wouldn't have more time to get to know this sergeant better.

"I don't wanna die here…alone, Colonel…but I'd rather that than have them…have you all die here with me." Movement at the cave entrance diverted Saunders' wavering attention. He rubbed a sleeve back across his burning eyes and watched as Littlejohn took over from Caje on guard. The scout moved silently to where his buddies sat, accepting a can of rations from Billy with a grateful nod, too worried, too weary to smile.

"I don't want my family to bury an empty coffin." Saunders' voice broke as he mind wandered back to the family in Illinois who would mourn him terribly. The faces of his mother and younger sister, his Marine brother, his long dead father swam in his thoughts. He quite nearly lost his resolve then and there, but his first duty was to his men. Mom, Louise and especially Joey, would understand. He was too exhausted to waste his strength on tears.

"If you can somehow make it back here, sometime…if you can, Colonel…I don't want my family to bury an empty coffin." He closed his eyes and drifted off, but the pain brought him back with a nasty start. This time when Ironhorse called Doc over, Saunders allowed the medic to offer him all the comfort he could. The sergeant calmly watched the two men who waited at his side while the morphine stole the pain and the rest of his rational thoughts.

Before Saunders' eyes closed, Ironhorse saw something far and away, deep, past the color – shadows, ideas, things past and present, whatever it is that makes up the man – the soul? Embarrassed at observing something so intimate, so personal that only he seemed capable of seeing, Ironhorse turned aside vowing in his heart, _if there's any way…I will return_.

Caje rose, coming to stand near Saunders, Ironhorse and Doc.

"We're leaving soon, Caje. Get the men ready," the officer ordered.

"Yes, sir." Caje nodded. "I'll take Kirby outside…get some saplings cut to rig Sarge's stretcher."

The PFC took a step before Ironhorse stopped him. "No, just get the men ready to move out."

"But Colonel, Littlejohn can't carry 'im. We don't know how far our lines are. A stretcher…"

In a voice made sharp with regret Ironhorse snapped, "Sergeant Saunders remains behind. Now follow orders! Get the men ready to move out. You've got ten minutes."

The Cajun's mouth dropped open, words of denial frozen temporarily on his lips. His gaze shifted quickly to his squad leader. "We ain't leavin' him! No way!"

"His idea, Caje." Ironhorse replied. "His idea, my orders. Now!"

Kirby, listening to the exchange with the rest of the men got angrily to his feet, B.A.R. clutched in both hands. His voice was raw, his words insubordinate. "We ain't leavin' him! Orders or not! _You_ go, Colonel! Take the other guys! I'm stayin'!"

Ironhorse rose from Saunders' side. Stiff-legged, eyes narrowed, back straight, the misplaced lieutenant colonel stalked the few yards to where Kirby stood, glaring daggers, red-faced with barely controlled rage. Ironhorse stood toe to toe with the shorter man. He was out of his time, but not his element.

"I don't have to explain my rationale to you, Private. All you need to know is – we move out in ten minutes," he hazarded a look at his watch, "nine minutes. You _will_ go!"

The colonel did an abrupt 180 degree turn and went back to crouch near Saunders. Carefully, he built up the meager fire, feeding it morsels of kindling, coaxing it and moving more wood to within the sergeant's easy reach, as if the wounded man still retained the strength _to_ move.

Kirby shook his head, but watched the colonel with keen interest. He shouldered the B.A.R. and reached inside his jacket pocket, retrieved his last two cans of rations and slowly worked them open. He walked over to Saunders and set the cans on the rock near the non-com's head. Pulling his canteen free he took a small swallow and laid that, too, within the sergeant's reach.

Caje was next, pulling out a pack of cigarettes and a battered Zippo, he contributed both to the collection.

Doc's offering was more sobering – a small metal case which he opened and the syringe full of morphine it contained. Almost as an afterthought, the young medic searched his pockets and found what he was looking for and a pack of gum joined the pile.

Littlejohn and Billy refused to join in the odd ceremony and stood, talking softly, Littlejohn attempting to explain when the youngster kept asking, over and over, "but why?" like the frightened child he still was. How do you tell a kid that one dying man has to be left behind, sacrificed, so the rest of the squad might stand a fighting chance of making it back alive without it sounding callous, ugly and hard? Littlejohn settled for, "Sarge thinks it's best this way." As if that made it any better.

Billy nodded and began getting ready to move out. He'd be damned if he'd let the others, especially the colonel, see him cry.

Xxxx

Fifteen minutes after they left, the squall stopped. The woods were serene, peaceful and beautiful, reminding the men of a Christmas morning at home. But each man in the silence of his heart remembered the man they'd left behind. No one spoke of it; maybe next week or next month or next year, but not now.

As the weather cleared each soldier became conscious of the added danger. They were visible targets and they took the precautions the situation required. In spite of that, the artillery fire from German 88s caught them in the open.

"Take cover! Take cover!" Ironhorse screamed as he scrambled to make the tree line. The explosion caught him, tossing the officer hard into the snow-covered ground. Pain burst through his head and the last thing he heard was the low roar of Kirby's B.A.R.

Xxxx

"He's coming around."

Ironhorse hazarded a question before even attempting to open his eyes. "Doc?"

Corporal Wilson glanced quickly across the colonel to see what Harrison Blackwood thought of that. The scientist shrugged, leaned closer to Ironhorse and touched his shoulder, giving it a gentle shake. "Paul? Come on. Time to wake up."

Frowning, the colonel opened his eyes, wondering how long he'd been out. It had been very early morning when he'd taken Saunders' squad out and now it was nearly dark. His body jerked in surprise when he realized it was Omega Squad's medic, Corporal Wilson who worked over him and not Doc; and Harrison Blackwood's concerned face hovering too close and not Sergeant Saunders'.

"What the hell happened?" the colonel questioned, licking at dry lips, accepting a canteen and a hand beneath his head to reach it.

"One of those damned aliens had a grenade, sir. You were the target."

"And it was too close this time, Paul." Blackwood's voice was husky. The fear, the worry, were plainly visible on the man's face.

"You've been out close to an hour, Colonel. We were getting worried." Wilson checked the bandage above Ironhorse's right eye and panned a penlight into both, checking for reaction. "Sergeant Stavrakos is bringing the jeep up. We'll get you back to camp in a few minutes."

Ironhorse stiffened. "Not yet…I have to check something out. I need to…."

Harrison put a restraining hand on his friend's shoulder as Ironhorse struggled to sit up.

Ironhorse grabbed the hand and his expression turned incredibly sad. "Something happened out there, Harrison. Something I can't explain, but I have to see…I made a promise to return." The voice quavered with emotion.

"Sure, Paul, but later…tomorrow."

"Now, Harrison! Now! I promised!" Ironhorse turned from Blackwood to Wilson and past the medic to Stavrakos who ran up, a smile on his usually sober face when he noticed his C.O. awake.

"Sergeant, there are caves near here, two, maybe three miles south of our position."

"Yes, sir," Stavrakos replied. "I know them."

"Sergeant, I want you to get me there. Let's go!" Rising too quickly, Ironhorse swayed unsteadily at first, gathering strength rapidly.

During the short ride, the colonel related his experience to Doctor Blackwood. As he figured, Harrison was more than dubious.

"You've got a concussion, Paul. You've been with us, me and Wilson, the entire time. World War II, Saunders, Caje, Krauts…all a dream." Blackwood smiled his most reassuring smile. "It'll be okay."

Ironhorse shook his head carefully since it pounded sickeningly at any movement. Stavrakos brought the jeep to a halt and the colonel eased himself out. Nothing looked familiar. The cave entrance was so covered by vines and growth that Stavrakos had to show Ironhorse the way inside. The sergeant panned his flash around in an arc. Ironhorse drew his out and did likewise. Voices echoed back at him and tears sprang into his eyes. He shook in the damp cold and felt Harrison at his side, an arm beneath his, bracing him.

"I was here," he murmured. "They were here – Saunders, Caje, Kirby, Littlejohn, Billy, all here, Harrison!" Ironhorse pulled away from Blackwood and on shaky legs moved the few yards to where he'd left the dying Saunders. There was nothing there now, no remnants of a fire, no personal tokens left on the rock, no body, nothing.

Ironhorse dropped down onto the hard ground and wrapped his arms around his shivering body. His expression bore grim testimony to his pain. "They _were_ here. They _were_," he murmured with conviction.

Suddenly, the agonized expression changed as a memory came to him, flashed across his mind. He smiled. Reaching into his breast pocket Ironhorse retrieved a man's I.D. bracelet, the silver gleaming like new in the beam of Stavrakos' flashlight. At Harrison's questioning look he passed his friend the bracelet.

After taking a moment to examine the token, Harrison read aloud the inscription. "Sergeant Chip Saunders. Serial number 2270622." Turning it over in his palm he continued, "July 7th, 1944. To Chip with love, Mom." Blackwood noticed the clasp was broken. He handed the bracelet back to Ironhorse who reverently placed the jewelry back into its safe resting place.

"You kept your promise, Colonel," Harrison said. "Now it's time to go home."

END


	2. Chapter 2

His Squad Now, Chapter 2, The Least Among Many

Consciousness returned slowly, tiny faltering steps and even those too hurried to be acceptable by any means.

The last things he remembered, clearly, were the cave, the damp lonely emptiness of ancient memories, Harrison Blackwood's arm around his waist steadying unsure footsteps…and a sudden flash of kaleidoscopic colors. A thousand fireworks burst behind his eyes – a combination of the 4th of July, the lightening storms back in Oklahoma that flashed and burned and threatened rain but were all show, and an artillery barrage in Vietnam, seen from a too close OP in a black otherworldly night – these images in less than a heartbeat and all at once. Paul Ironhorse had time to utter a single word at the display, "God!" and that was all.

He woke in a hospital, strange faces above him, moving quickly in and out of his very limited line of vision. He couldn't talk, couldn't respond to questions in a language he couldn't comprehend.

Finally a face he recognized – Harrison Blackwood's – stark white, anxious and a question in English. "Paul, can you hear me?"

Ironhorse nodded and even that sent the room into a tail spin and his head into the vice-like grip of razored pain. He closed his eyes and tried to absorb what Harrison was explaining to him, but he caught only bits and pieces.

"Paris hospital. Blood clot on the brain. Surgery…soon."

He felt Blackwood squeeze his hand; felt the coldness of Harrison's skin, the tremors, his or Blackwood's? Then he felt nothing. He was careening down a lightless tunnel. It was only an impression since the darkness was absolute, but he kept banging into the walls as he spiralled lower, out of control, tumbling heels over head.

When he woke this time it was not to hospital smells – disinfectant, remnants of the last meal, stale close air, but to the chill of the outdoors, of late fall and the scent of pine, fallen leaves and snow…and mixed it with all the lingering scent of gunpowder, but the face above him was just as foreign and the language at least as difficult to understand. Instead of French it was German.

"Er is nicht tot!"

Uncaring hands unfastened his web belt, unbuckled the sheath that held the long-bladed knife close against his left thigh, jerking both free. Ironhorse bit back a sharp groan as pain burst through his head at the rough treatment. He heard another voice – Doc's, raised in anger, from somewhere off to his left.

Ironhorse's hands were pulled away as he cradled his pounding head, his collar yanked away from his throat, fingered by grubby hands. Another sentence in guttural German and a phrase he understood, "Der Oberstleutnant!"

A blanket was hastily thrown over him and a familiar face appeared. Doc searched his newly returned knapsack and withdrew a handful of gauze squares, wiping blood from the colonel's mouth and nose.

"Concussion from the artillery round, Sir. Lie still."

It was more than easy for Ironhorse to do as he was told. The pain behind his eyes was blinding, and he was having an inordinate amount of difficulty making out what Doc was saying. However, he found if he concentrated hard enough, most of it made sense.

"We've been captured, Colonel. The squad put up a good fight, but what with you out…and Sarge…Kirby got hit, not too seriously, but the wound bled a lot. Finally there just wasn't any ammo left. Before they got us Caje busted up your rifle and Sarge's Thompson. They…" he inclined his head back over his shoulder to the Germans standing guard over the men, "won't be usin' 'em."

Doc finished cleaning the blood from the colonel's face, took out his pen light and flicked it into the officer's eyes. Ironhorse flinched at the white beam like a stream of laser light burning through each eye and into his brain.

"Sorry, Sir," Doc apologized, unhappy with the sluggish, irregular response of the colonel's pupils to the stimulus. Gently the medic elevated the officer's head feeling the scalp for bumps or contusions. He found none and drew the German-provided blanket up to cover his patient. He leaned close and spoke quietly in confidence.

"When they found out you were a colonel they got real excited. Got right on the radio. I don't speak German, but I pretty much got the drift. This lieutenant here, he knows he got himself a prize. Probably thinks like we did when we found you…what's a colonel doin' out here, leading a squad? My guess and Caje agrees – they think we're a special operations team out here for some big deal reason. Their superiors want to know why and what that reason is. They'll be sending a ranking officer out quick to question you.

"They started treating us with respect, gave us blankets and let me treat you and Kirby. Even gave us soup and hot coffee."

Doc settled himself next to the colonel on the ground. Around the medic Ironhorse could see the squad, all alive, lined up in a row about a meter apart, heavily guarded, most resting back against trees or rocks, each exhausted. All had mess cups and were sipping from the contents as steam rose to wreath their faces, all, but Kirby. He lay curled on his side, head resting against Caje's leg, a blanket covering him. Caje was blowing on his cup and when he decided the contents were cool enough, he leaned down, helped Kirby raise his head and held the cup to the rifleman's lips.

Quietly, barely above a whisper, his eyes clouded in memory, Ironhorse came to a decision. "Saunders…we've got to get Saunders out of that cave."

The medic's attention was occupied by watching the squad, worrying about their welfare, but Doc heard and nodded. His own thoughts were never far from the man they'd been forced to leave behind. Saunders would be cold, the fire burned out by now, cold, in pain and lonely, lonely being the most frightening of the three in Doc's mind. He knew Saunders was still alive – could feel it.

An SS major, resplendent in black trimmed uniform and boots shiny enough to reflect the lieutenant colonel's wan face back at him from his prone position on the ground, issued a sharp order. There was a hasty reply and Ironhorse found himself lifted onto a field cot. He closed his eyes as the world around him tipped and swam and he fought to retain his very tenuous grip on consciousness. The temptation to give in, release himself to the beckoning darkness was very nearly overpowering, but he had to remain conscious, had to get his point across. He prayed this major spoke English. This prayer, the least among many, was answered.

"I have come to question you, Herr Colonel. I consider it an honor. I hope you will cooperate, although in my limited experience with American officers of high rank, I have found them to be most…stubborn, very nearly as stubborn as the enlisted men." The major sat in the camp chair provided by a subservient private, stripped off his fine leather gloves and used them to gesture toward the colonel's bedraggled squad.

The implication was not lost on Ironhorse. "You think by threatening my men you can force me to talk. Not very original, Major." _And it's been tried before_ – _in Vietnam – a long time ago, no, a long time in the future; a prisoner of war camp; a young captain and another exhausted, worn out squad. The VC tried it. It hadn't worked, but it had been unholy hell. _It would be no better here, but Ironhorse did not want it to come to that.

"I have my own proposition, Major," Ironhorse countered. "I'll tell you everything I know," _precious damn little – five days running around a French forest, chasing and being chased by opposing squads of the enemy _– "in exchange for your cooperation in retrieving my wounded sergeant from a cave not far from here. Bring Sergeant Saunders back. Treat him and my other wounded and the information is yours."

"That's it, Colonel? That is all you want from me?" The German snapped his fingers and an orderly ran over and placed a crystal wine glass filled with a very decent Cognac, both doubtless looted from a French villa, into his hand.

"Another, Schmidt, for our honored guest."

The major reached across to hand Ironhorse the glass, but the colonel had lost consciousness. The major shrugged, downed his glass quickly, handed it to Schmidt, leaned back in his chair and casually sipped the second.

"Find out from that PFC over there," he indicated Caje, "where that sergeant is. Send two men back with the American medic. Give him whatever supplies he requires and send my surgeon here to me. We must not lose our colonel before he tells me what I need to know."

Schmidt nodded, snapped of a fine salute and scrambled to obey orders.

Of course the Germans made Doc carry the stretcher as well as his own bag and the extra supplies, but the young G.I. dismissed the cumbersome weight and the discomfort where the support poles bit into his shoulder and rubbed it raw. If the krauts were expecting him to lag behind because of the burdens they'd imposed, they were wrong. He outpaced them in his impatience to get to Saunders.

The temperature inside the cave was at least as cold as it was outside, but clammily dank and eerie to boot, the fire having burned totally out. The German private moved past doc and flipped on the switch to his flashlight.

"Over there, the far wall. Over there." Doc gestured, dropping the stretcher heavily to the rock floor, the sound shattering the almost absolute stillness of the cave. He followed tight at the kraut's back. The flashlight beam found the sergeant, played on his face and down his body. The medic pushed by, crouching at Saunders' side.

"Hold that light steady!" Doc probed the sergeant's throat for a pulse, his own fingers clumsy and numb from cold. He found it, barely, and was grateful to the point of smiling up at the second German when he, too, lit his flashlight.

That still didn't give the medic enough light to work by. With gestures and words he communicated the need to move the sergeant outside.

Saunders was deeply unconscious. Most of the hours since the colonel and his men had left he'd spent awake and completely aware of his predicament. And he'd regretted, painfully and recurrently, his decision to send the men away. The loneliness was unbearable. The weaker Saunders became, the less he thought it had been the only correct decision, morally, ethically. The weaker he got, the more selfish he became. He needed the comfort his men, his friends, would have provided – their warmth and support. He was selfish, you bet. He was also only human.

Sounds were the worst. In delirium he thought them the voices of people he knew – his mother's, sister's, brothers', his dad's – a father dead years ago, but the memory of the voice, rich and deep and clear remained vivid and real. But the sounds were only the wind whistling through the tunnels that led into the cave, narrow snaking tubes that grabbed hold of the wind at one end and delivered it in a series of whispers, moans, giggles and sighs to the desperately ill man at the other.

It was a blessed relief when the soldier lost conscious thought. He was beyond physical pain and his dreams were puffs of smoke and wisps of sheep's back clouds. It was an unshatterable peace.

Just under two hours passed by the time Doc, his patient and guards returned to the German encampment. A tent had been erected in the center of the small clearing and the colonel lay within the open-sided shelter. A doctor, white coat and all, fussed around him doing precious little for the American officer's severe head injury.

The major remained seated on his camp chair, smoking a cigarette, tapping one black-booted foot with more than a bit of impatience. You can't interrogate an unconscious man.

Kirby remained where he had been, on the ground among the other soldiers, Caje's hand resting lightly against the private's shoulder. Kirby was conscious and in obvious pain, his thin face pinched and colorless.

The kraut lieutenant motioned the litter over next to Kirby. Doc had no choice but to lay Saunders on the damp ground, the only thing between him and the cold bare earth a bit of canvas.

Doc's kraut escorts sat near the captive G.I.s and began to pull out the personal items the Americans had left in the cave for Saunders. Littlejohn was the first to notice and he howled in indignation as the pair lit up Caje's cigarettes using the PFC's own Zippo: split up the medic's pack of gum and Kirby's last two cans of rations. "Dirty kraut bastards! They stole the stuff we left for the Sarge!"

Caje and Billy joined in the verbal assault as Littlejohn jumped to his feet, menacing the Germans with bound hands, intimidating them with his size. Yet all the noise and posturing were no match for German Mausers and their own medic's voice of reason.

"Take it easy, Littlejohn, for God's sake! You'll only make things worse! Sit down, now. Just sit down."

While the big PFC continued to glare ominously at the Germans, he did as Doc asked.

Surprised at the venom of the Americans' words and understanding none of them with the exception of the derogatory "kraut," the Germans still got the message.

Sheepishly, as if to make amends, the second German, the younger of the pair and about the same age as Billy Nelson, reached inside his jacket and withdrew the metal box containing the morphine and syringe Doc had left in the cave. He got to his feet, walked over to where the medic knelt between Saunders and Kirby and held out the offering, indicating Doc should use it for the suffering soldiers. The medic smiled, for the second time trading the sincerity of an expression in return for a kindness. He accepted the box.

xxxx

It took only the briefest flash of consciousness, all he was allowed, for Ironhorse to realize he was no longer on a World War II battlefield, nor in a civilian hospital. The surgeon leaning over him, panning the annoying light into his eyes, gave Ironhorse a close-up view of the insignia on his collar – the gold leaf of a U.S. Army major.

As he careened again back into the painless dark void of lost sensation, the half-Cherokee colonel had one entirely lucid thought; he had no idea he'd voiced it aloud. "This shit's gotta stop!"

xxxx

This, what he felt now more than rivaled the worse hangover Paul Ironhorse had ever imagined, let alone experienced. Even in the relatively dim light of the German-provided tent, the brightness drilled into his half-opened eyes like shards of jagged glass. He groaned and raised one arm to block the glare.

A presence insinuated itself between him and the light and Ironhorse uncovered his eyes, blinking up into the familiar face of King Company's medic. "Doc," he acknowledged, his expression questioning even before he spoke the words. "Saunders…how's Saunders?"

The medic sighed once then bent into a crouch to speak in a confidential whisper to his commander. "Not good, Sir. He won't make the night." Doc's gaze met the colonel's. His eyes were red-rimmed and bloodshot.

"They can't help? Their surgeon can't do anything?" Ironhorse asked.

"No, Sir. The kraut surgeon could get the bullet out. I asked him, to, begged him," the young G.I. paused, embarrassed at the catch in his voice. It was an obvious struggle for him to continue, a struggle against his own anger and grief, "but the doctor, he said his superior wouldn't allow it. Guess an enlisted man's not worth the effort. Beggin' your pardon, Colonel. I didn't mean…." Doc stammered. "I meant no disrespect to you, Sir," he finished.

"None taken, Doc," the colonel replied.

"The surgeon gave me one bottle of plasma, all he could spare, and some bandages and even at that he acted like it was more than he should do. He was nervous about it, kept lookin' over his shoulder."

Doc sank back on his haunches, head bowed, hands clasped in front of him in a semblance of prayer, but Doc wasn't praying, not in the usual sense. Ironhorse could see past him to Saunders and beside him, Kirby and Caje.

"Has he been conscious at all?"

"No. I thought about giving him the morphine, the dose I'd left in the cave, but I gave it to Kirby instead. I don't think the Sarge can feel much of anything any more. At least I hope he can't. Didn't do him a bit of good bringin' him here. No good at all." Doc never raised his head. His words were directed at no one in particular.

"That's not true, Doc," Ironhorse said. "It's the best thing you could've done. Look…just look."

Slowly the medic brought his head up, turning slightly. He saw what Ironhorse had seen, Saunders being comforted, his hand held tightly in Kirby's; Caje bent low, speaking to him in his softly accented, familiar way.

Doc nodded. "Guess you're right, Colonel. Least he won't be alone. Nothing's worse than being alone…dying alone."

Neither man heard the approach of the German major until he cleared his throat at an attempt at a polite interruption. The politeness stopped there. "Back to your patients, Medic. Your colonel and I have things to discus."

Doc straightened, wearily, reluctantly, favored Ironhorse with a whispered, "sir," and made his way back to the squad.

The major settled onto the camp stool, lit a cigarette and blew a cloud of smoke skyward. "I did as you requested, Colonel Ironhorse. Your sergeant is here. Now I will have your information." The major blew the next plume of smoke toward the American officer.

Ironhorse gritted his teeth at the intended insult, but otherwise gave no outward acknowledgment of his annoyance. "Agreed, Major."

The German looked incredibly pleased with himself and with a snap of well-manicured fingers brought over his adjutant, pen and notebook in hand.

Ironhorse began. "Five days ago I awoke from a head injury sustained from an enemy grenade. I remembered my name, rank and serial number – not the day, the date or the year. During those five days the squad, the men who found me, and I dodged your patrols, engaged the enemy and were ultimately caught in a battle against one of your machine gun emplacements. We took refuge in the cave where I ordered the sergeant left behind. This morning we were hit by your artillery barrage and captured. That, Major, is all I know…everything I remember."

There was a prolonged silence. Ironhorse watched the major's complexion change from a healthy ruddy pink to a dark mottled red. A vein pulsed and bulged at his right temple and the cigarette dropped from his fingers. "Liar! Liar!" he shrieked, drawing back a hand, palm open, and slapping the prone helpless Ironhorse hard across one cheek.

The colonel's head snapped to the side. His ears rang and the already agonizing pain became unbearable. He felt himself passing out, but fought it. Guttural orders were issued. Hands were on him, lifting him roughly, carrying him away from the semi-comfort of the cot and tent, laying him on the naked ground next to Sergeant Saunders.

Doc's hands were on him now, trying to help, for all the good it would do. The colonel heard the echo of the medic's earlier words, "He won't make the night," only this time Doc spoke not of Sergeant Saunders, but of Ironhorse himself. His only hope for survival, his and Saunders, lay in a hospital, the skill of the surgeons and science. He had gone back before, somehow, and somehow he knew he could go back again, not back, but forward where Harrison and probably by now the rest of the Blackwood Project members, Suzanne and Norton, waited. If he could find his way out of this place and out of this time then why couldn't he bring Saunders? And maybe this once he could control the travel.

Ironhorse suddenly lost control of his body. Limbs rigid, head thrown back, eyes open but unseeing, the colonel convulsed. Doc fell back, horrified by the suddenness, the violence of it all.

"Jesus!" Caje implored.

Littlejohn's words were shouted curses.

With a final effort, whether force of will or just plain luck, Ironhorse flung out a hand. It landed on Saunders' chest. The fingers curled into a fist around a handful of dirty khaki jacket. Ironhorse felt the beginnings of the now familiar spiral into darkness and welcomed it this once.

xxxx

In the small military hospital outside Paris, a silent earthquake rattled the brass pulls on dressers, sent unoccupied beds skittering into walls, cracked glass-doored cabinets and sent nurses, doctors and orderlies scurrying to check patients.

Outside, directly above the hospital, lightening ripped horizontally across a cloudless sky, unheralded by the crack or rumble of thunder. It was eerie and soundless and over as quickly as the quake.

Everything in the hospital was as it had been, everything in every room except that occupied by Lieutenant Colonel Paul Ironhorse. On a bed against the wall, a previously unoccupied bed, lay a solider. He was young, in his late 20s, blond and blue-eyed, nearly dead from a bullet wound to the chest. Dressed in khaki fatigues, World War II era, a set of dog tags identified him as Sergeant Carson C. Saunders, missing in action since November, 1944.

The young soldier, recovering from surgery, could not or would not offer any explanation as to how he came to be where he was. In fact, he offered very little in the way of information of any sort. He was quiet and withdrawn.

Colonel Ironhorse, recovering from his own surgery, was just as reticent. The only obvious fact being that the sergeant and the colonel were well-acquainted. There seemed to be a bond between them, the type forged by men who had shared the experiences, perhaps, of war.

When the colonel left the hospital in the company of his civilian family, Doctors Blackwood and McCullough and Norton Drake, Sergeant Saunders was warmly included. On his right wrist he wore a sterling I.D. bracelet, recently repaired and returned to him by Ironhorse.

Questions remained unanswered to the dissatisfaction of the local military authorities. After a phone call from General Henry J. Wilson of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, Washington, D.C., those questions were withdrawn. All information and records pertaining to Lieutenant Colonel Paul Ironhorse and Sergeant Carson Saunders were permanently sealed.

xxxx

A sudden ferocious storm drove a group of exhausted prisoners of war and their German guards to cover. Forced to leave their two most seriously wounded comrades behind, the G.I.s found the men gone when morning broke and they returned to the tiny clearing. No amount of pleading or angry shouts moved the Germans to tell the Americans the whereabouts of the lieutenant colonel and the sergeant. In fact, if the G.I.s hadn't known better, they would've sworn the Germans seemed as surprised as they when the officer and non-come came up missing, but the surprise was covered quickly and well, and the fate of the two American soldiers remained a mystery to the survivors of King Company, one they would discus and agonize over, for years to come.

xxxx

Six months after the end of the war, Sergeant Carson C. Saunders' family, his mother, sister and brothers, buried an empty coffin. The non-com's worst nightmare had come to pass.

END


End file.
